


Overplayed

by Janekfan



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Caretaking, Gen, Gentleness, Hands, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Overworking, Pain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:35:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23796244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Janekfan/pseuds/Janekfan
Summary: Jaskier works too hard.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 16
Kudos: 299





	Overplayed

“What’s wrong with you?” Several loud thunks indicated Geralt stamping the snow off his boots by the door before sitting heavy on the single bed to unbuckle them. Jaskier bit his lip to silence the yelp of pain the movement inspired. “You usually don’t run off after a performance.”

“Ah, so you were watching.” The gentle swat was meant to be playful, endearing, and the flare up in his back was anything but. He’d overdone it. And he’d known he’d been overdoing it for a while now. But while small, the town was profitable, and the coin Jaskier could earn in a place like this could secure lodging enough they wouldn’t have to sleep outside until they parted ways for the season. Geralt deserved somewhere warm to spend a few weeks until he abandoned all civility and headed for Kaer Morhen to winter and if Jaskier could benefit as well--

Fierce yellow eyes pinned him to the mattress more than the ache thrumming through the whole of him. 

“What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing.” 

“Jaskier.”

“Just some old injuries flaring up.” The bard smiled for his companion. “It’s truly nothing, dearest Witcher.” Flirting never got him anywhere before and it certainly didn’t get him anywhere now.

“Injuries. You’re injured?” Rather than watch that discerning, predatory gaze wander up and down his figure, Jaskier let lead-lined lashes slip shut. He just needed to be still and rest. Maybe when he wasn’t so blasted tired he could duck out for some snow. It would feel good on his hands. 

“It’s not polite to stare.” He had the coin. A hot bath would be nice. Calm the screaming tension and tightness singing across his shoulders. He jumped, groaned, when Geralt touched him and it took him by surprise. 

“Where?” Large, hot fingers ran firmly along the major muscle groups, his ribs, his legs, questing and questioning; the bard could feel it in the weighty gaze. “I can’t find anything.” The note of incredulity wasn’t hard to miss and Jaskier felt a pang that had nothing to do with his overused and exhausted body. 

Geralt thought he was lying. 

“Where, bard?” Voice softened with the realization of his misstep, Geralt checked next his aching head. 

“Everywhere.” Dramatic, an expulsion of breath that belayed his frustration. Leave me here to die, went unsaid but he knows the Witcher picked up on the subtext and was not amused. It was amazing what he could discern from silence. “From performing.” He only knew he was bracing for mocking laughter when it didn’t come. 

“Hmm.” Very carefully, Geralt lifted his hand from where he’d been resting it on his stomach. Jaskier hissed sharply through his teeth at the sharp stabbing of needles in his fingers and wrist and arm and Geralt was examining each one. “Your back? Shoulders?” 

“It’s nothing, just need to rest it.”

“You’ve played too much.” Jaskier must have drifted off, because Geralt woke him, levering him up slowly and waiting for him to gain his feet. 

He felt hobbled by the knives in his back, but Geralt was there, patient when he let Jaskier navigate how to step into the tub without falling over. The moan of relief was obscene when strong fingers dug into the knots in his shoulders, slicked with some sort of oil that had been steeped with herbs. Whatever it was, it sunk into his skin, into his core, and made him drowsy. 

“You don’t have to perform so often.” 

“Hmm.” He sounded drugged and if Geralt wanted to carry on the conversation that was fine with him. 

“You will rest tomorrow.” Long strokes down either side of his spine tipped him far enough that his bangs began to float in the water. He inhaled the steam. “Let yourself heal.” A firm grip settled him deeper in the enveloping warmth, pausing just long enough to lather his hair and rinse. “If I leave you for a few moments, will I return to find you drowned?” 

“Hmm.” 

He was in bed, dressed lightly, and Geralt was draping a cloth over his arm to the elbow and settling something over it. When the cold hit, Jaskier’s sluggish brain caught up enough to realize that it was snow. And it was blissful. 

“You din’t…” trailing off. Letting the ice take the heat and swelling out of him.

“There’s no shame in it.” He wasn’t this tired before. Maybe it was just all catching up to him; he’d been so sore for so long. “Your earnings will provide well.” 

“How’d y’know what--?” Tongue clumsy in his mouth, Jaskier let himself drift off as the Witcher lifted the snowpack and shook the linen out the window and crawled over Jaskier’s prone and boneless form.

“Sword training.” Geralt tugged the blanket over the both of them and the heat generated was too powerful a sedative.

“Hmm.”

**Author's Note:**

> Take care of your hands, fellow artists and writers!


End file.
